It's All About Eve. Tracy Kelleher
right, and I apologize profusely.” A confident female voice sounded, coming closer. “I didn’t realize Carter was here on business—though why he would be here otherwise might be just as fascinating.” She shook her head, causing her chin-length hair to shake perfunctorily. “Never mind.” She stuck out a large, very capable-looking hand. “I’m Simone Fahrer.”
Melodie announced from behind Eve, “Why don’t I go over and help those girls choose at least six pairs of boxers apiece? You can fill me in later.” She waggled her pencil-thin eyebrows and sashayed toward the front of the store. She was about as subtle as Betty Boop.
Eve sighed and stepped away from the counter. She put out her hand and shook Simone’s. The woman had a grip strong enough to be a teamster—though Eve couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a teamster in pinstripes, if you discounted Jimmy Hoffa, that is. “Eve Cantoro, I’m the owner.”
Carter stepped next to Simone. “Simone is an attorney in town.”
“Don’t let that prejudice you,” Simone assured her. “I’m really a very nice person.”
“No you’re not,” Carter said.
Simone made a face. “Maybe you’re right. But that’s beside the point. You have a duty to do.” She pointed to Eve. “Fix up whatever’s wrong with this lady, okay?”
“I’m trying to, provided I don’t get dragged into any more women’s dressing rooms.”
Eve cocked her head. “You found that unpleasant?”
“Well, actually, I always did kind of wonder,” Carter admitted.
Eve looked at him closely. “You realize you’re blushing, don’t you?”
Simone looked, too. “He is blushing.”
“You know, a less secure man might take offence,” Carter said.
Simone raised a skeptical eyebrow. “There’s no such thing as a totally secure male.” She looked to Eve. “Don’t you agree?”
Eve glanced at Carter Moran. The slight rosiness to his cheeks seemed to have abated, leaving a healthy tan and the dark stubble in its place. Some things he looked—in-secure wasn’t one of them.
She turned back to Simone. “In my experience, the only time a man is ever truly secure is sitting on a couch with the button of his jeans undone after eating a whole large pepperoni pizza and watching his favorite football team trounce their hated rival.”
Carter held a hand to his chest. “What? Women don’t feel that everything’s right with the world at moments like that?” He sounded deeply offended. He only looked more charming.
“Women don’t eat pizza with pepperoni,” Eve replied.
“A fear of nitrates?”
“Fear of all streams of orangey grease dribbling down at inopportune moments in all sorts of embarrassing places.” She licked her bottom lip, unaware of the implications until she saw Carter gulp.
Simone eyed Carter before addressing Eve. “I can see you’ve expanded his horizons. And I must say, it’s been an all around fascinating experience.” She came down heavily on the “fascinating.”
Eve plastered on a toothy smile. Unfortunately, one of her upper incisors was slightly crooked, so it didn’t have such a dazzling effect—at least, in Eve’s view. Growing up, orthodontia had been a luxury out of her family’s price range. “I hope you gave Melodie your address so that we can put you on our mailing list. We’ll let you know about our sales and special events.”
“You bet. This is my first time in, but you can be sure I’ll be back. Finally a place to find things to make a woman feel special.”
“Are you taking notes?” Eve asked Carter. “This could prove handy.”
“Sorry? I’m still a little stunned by whatever it was that Simone flashed me in the changing room.” Carter waggled a shaky finger in the general area of her torso.
Simone shrugged. “If I had only known that that was all it took. On the other hand, why am I surprised? Men are so predictable.”
“If we’re so predictable, why bother?” he asked her.
“Because it’s not just about you,” Eve answered emphatically.
“Precisely,” Simone said. She turned to Carter, her chin held high. “You should definitely be taking notes. And you know what I mean.”
“Not really,” Carter said.
“Don’t play dumb. It’s out of character.” She patted Carter on the cheek. “In any case, I’ll see you later this evening.” She waved goodbye and marched briskly out the door. It wasn’t often that such a purposeful stride caused parallel pinstripes to curve in so captivating a fashion.
Eve watched, impressed. “Some woman.”
“That’s for sure, though sometimes she scares me silly,” Carter said.
Eve turned. “And you don’t like that?”
He rubbed the underside of his jaw. “Let’s put it this way—it’s kind of like eating Brussels sprouts. I know it’s good for me, but it still doesn’t make it any easier.”
Which could make for a somewhat tortuous relationship.
“Why don’t we get back to the case? I take it you’re an independent?” he asked.
“What? Oh, yes, I’m not a franchise or anything. I’m independent—totally.”
Carter suppressed a smile. “So, tell me, is your success ruffling any feathers? Have you received any complaints?”
“So far all the neighborhood shopkeepers have been very friendly. It’s a very cooperative community—one of the things that attracted me to Grantham in the first place.” She stopped. “Actually, now that you bring it up, there was one incident. An older woman came in last week—with her young grandson. She was upset when the boy asked what the bustier in the window was for.”
Carter didn’t bother to suppress his smile this time. “Seems like a reasonable question.”
“And, I think, an indication that the kid has a real aptitude for spatial relations. His grandmother didn’t think so though. She said my display was indecent, or words to that effect.”
“Words to that effect?”
“She said, and I quote, ‘It defiles the moral sensibilities of the community.”’
“All that from one bustier, huh? And what did you reply?”
“I said that her grandson was probably just your normal, curious boy, and given that he looked about eight years old, I thought he was probably far more interested in baseball cards than bustiers. She didn’t look like she agreed, but she didn’t say anything more.”
“Did you get her name?” Carter pulled a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. When Eve shook her head, he changed tack and looked around the store. “Is there any other entrance to the store besides the front door?”
“There’s a back door at the end of the dressing rooms that has access to the rear parking lot, but it’s always locked except for deliveries. And there’s the door to the stairway for the apartment upstairs, but again that’s always locked.” Carter lifted his notebook. “I’m the tenant,” she said before he could ask. “I rent from Bernard Polk.” Polk was old-moneyed Grantham. His mother had maintained the family’s social standing by being a devout member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, while he’d done his darnedest to uphold the family stature by playing polo and going through a series of Palm Beach debutantes. The older he got, the younger and more vapid they seemed to get as well—the debs, not the ponies. It was probably just as well that he was hard of hearing but too vain to